


Why Are Our Roles Reversed?

by Illusinia



Category: Battle Scars (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Phil and Nick are drunk, drunken antics, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illusinia/pseuds/Illusinia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phones ringing at 2 am were rarely good. Clint's phone ringing at 2 am usually meant something had blown up. And he wasn't the person causing the explosion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why Are Our Roles Reversed?

Phones ringing at 2 am were rarely good. Clint's phone ringing at 2 am usually meant something had blown up. And he wasn't the person causing the explosion.

 

Groaning, Clint rolled over in his nest (literally a nest; he'd found a nest-shaped bed on the internet and ordered it immediately) to grab his cellphone from the wall-shelf he'd pasted into place to hold it. Blinking his eyes, he stared at the numbers on his screen. It wasn't a number in his phone but it looked familiar. Huh. Weird.

 

Still, a phone call at 2 am usually meant an emergency and they couldn't always access secure lines when things were going boom. Especially if something like Doom-bots were involved. Or Thor's brother.

 

With a groan, he accepted the call and pressed the cell to his ear. “If this isn't important, I'm gonna track whoever this is down and shoot you with an arrow. In the knee.”

 

“Clint, that's no way to talk to a superior,” admonished Phil. His voice sounded odd though; almost loopy. Well, that couldn't be good.

 

“Sir?” questioned Clint, sitting up further in his bed with his brow furrowed. “I swear I didn't cause whatever exploded this time!”

 

“Nothin' exploded, I don't think.” Phil's voice trailed off, as if he was distracted, before someone shouted and he came back on. “Nope, no explosions.” His voice dropped then, clearly Phil's attempt to whisper. Sadly, his voice was still pretty loud. “Yet.”

 

Yeah, something was definitely wrong. If Clint didn't know better, he'd say....no. It wasn't possible. “Coulson, are you drunk?”

 

“Not drunk,” objected Phil way too quickly. “Tipsy, maybe. I think. The room's spinning. And Marcus is lying on the floor of the cell, laughing.”

 

“Cell?” repeated Clint, jaw hanging open. “Sir, are you in jail?”

 

“Yes, but it wasn't our fault,” added Phil quickly. “The bikers started it.”

 

“Bikers,” repeated Clint, not believing what he was hearing. His prim, straight laced boss was in the drunk tank at the local precinct (which is why Clint felt the number was familiar; he'd been there too many times himself) because of something involving bikers. What. The. Actual. Fuck. “Sir, is this a prank?”

 

“No,” replied Phil, his voice still sounding strange. He suddenly dropped his voice again, or at least tried to. “Barton, we need execution of Plan 234B.”

 

Clint blinked, no sure what the hell Phil was even marginally talking about at this point. “Uh, what?”

 

Phil groaned. “Don't you memorize plans anymore?”

 

“Phil, the plan is usually for me to sit on the roof and shoot things,” reminded Clint, rubbing the bridge of his nose and standing up. Whatever Phil was babbling about, he needed to be bailed out. “Who's there with you?”

 

“Marcus,” replied Phil, hiccuping slightly. “He's laughing at the pink bunnies on the ceiling.”

 

Okay, if there were hallucinogenics involved, that at least explained the bikers. “Sir, can you tell me what happened?”

 

Phil made a strange sound and shifted the phone. “Marcus and I went to celebrate Ranger Birthday. And there were bikers. Who didn't like the Rangers. A fight ensued. I think I threw someone through a window. Also, did you know pool sticks make terrible weapons? They break way too easily. Bottles are better.”

 

Well, that sounded bad. “Are you injured, Sir?”

 

“No,” replied Phil. “Marcus and I are fine.”

 

“Who's Marcus?” asked Clint as he pulled his pants on.

 

“My best friend,” replied Phil, as if that was supposed to mean something. “You know Marcus...” There was a shout from somewhere, and Phil made a noise of realization. “Oh! Right, I mean Nicky. Fury.”

 

Clint nearly dropped the phone and it was only some very skilled scrambling that let him catch it. “Nick Fury. As in SHIELD director, Nick Fury. You're sitting in the drunk tank with Nick Fury after you both got into a bar fight with angry bikers.” Was this what it felt like to get one of these calls? Clint was going to personally bake Phil and Natasha both a huge stack of cookies tomorrow. Because seriously, he didn't know how many of these calls he'd made himself but clearly an apology was in order.

 

“Yes,” confirmed Phil. “To all of the above. Uh, I'm getting glared at by the officer so I gotta go....” His voice dropped to the loud whisper again. “Remember! Plan 234B! Call Natasha if you can't remember the plan!” Then there was a click and the phone line shut off. Well, this was a beautiful beginning to the day.

 

Sighing, Clint canceled the call on his end, then paused and dialed Natasha. She'd probably kick his ass for this, but he was too curious about what Plan 234B was to let it drop. When she picked up, she sounded like she might be contemplating murder. “I'm going to feed you your balls, Clint.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Sighing, he kept pulling on his clothes. “What is Plan 234B?”

 

“Escape Plan 234B?” asked Natasha, her voice puzzled. “Why?”

 

“I'll explain in the morning,” replied Clint with a sigh. “I don't need to execute it and everyone's safe. I'm just wondering what it is.”

 

Growling slightly, Natasha shifted the phone. “You owe me pancakes tomorrow. Plan 234B involves applying C4 to the outside of a wall to create a hole, followed by three flash bangs to blind anyone inside so a captured agent can be pulled out. Why?”

 

“I'll explain in the morning,” groaned Clint. “And yes, I know. I owe you pancakes. You'll get them.”

 

“Good,” growled Natasha. Then she hung up.

 

Sighing, Clint grabbed his keys and headed out the door.

 

\---------------------------------

 

Clint wanted to laugh at the sight that greeted him as he walked into the local drunk tank. As it was, he snapped a few photos with his phone to show Natasha later. She'd appreciate this.

 

Phil was hanging on the cell bars, actually _hanging there_ , like he'd decided to randomly try to do pull-ups. He was in military fatigues that fit him and that really said something about how good of shape his boss had been keeping himself in. Director Fury, by contrast, was laying on the ground looking like he was trying to make snow angels and laughing about multicolored bunnies hopping around on the ceiling. Whatever this party was, Clint almost wished he'd been invited.

 

Neither man looked hurt, which was a relief, and Phil scampered down off the bars as soon as he spotted Clint. He tilted his head like a confused puppy, his eyes wide. “What happened to the C4 and flash bangs!?”

 

“Bail is easier,” replied Clint with a shake of his head. “And more legal. Adding evading arrest, felony prison break, and destruction of state property to your list of charges would have generated too much paper work. Also, it would have landed you in the ballpark of 30 years in prison and having you and the dir- Marcus arrested for that long would have sucked.”

 

“But...I like explosions when someone isn't trying to blow me up,” objected Phil, pouting a little. The man was actually pouting. What the actual fuck. He just wasn't going to respond to that. “Sir, are you injured.”

 

“No,” replied Phil, still pouting a little.

 

“I am!” shouted Fury from his place on the floor. “I can't find my head. I think it rolled away under the bench.” Of course, the fact that Fury had moved so his head was now actually _under_ the bench explained that one.

 

Groaning, Clint turned to the officers. “What is in their systems?”

 

“Nothing but alcohol,” explained Officer (Nancy) McClain with a shake of her head. “How, I don't know. But somehow, this is all from alcohol.”

 

Sighing, Clint looked back at his superiors. “How much damage did they cause?”

 

“It was mostly the bikers who caused the damage actually. A window, a few hundred dollars in alcohol, a couple of pool sticks and a stool. Wasn't their fault though, the bartender confirmed that. The bikers started it.”

 

“And where are the bikers?” asked Clint, almost afraid to know.

 

Officer McClain smirked a little. “The hospital. All thirteen of them.”

 

Thirteen? Shit. Okay, Clint was never underestimating Phil or Fury again. Apparently, the suits didn't matter, his superiors could still kick ass. Even while completely smashed. “Uh, right. And they aren't hurt?”

 

“Your buddies? Not at all,” assured Officer McClain with a shake of her head. “Either of them single by chance?”

 

“I have no clue,” admitted Clint because, seriously, he had no clue. The realization they were even capable of leaving the base for non-SHIELD business was completely shorting out his brain. Robots and selective cloning had both seemed like viable possibilities for their very existence before tonight.

 

She shrugged and handed him two slips of paper with the same phone number on it. “If either of them are. You good to take them home or do I need to call a cab?”

 

“I've got it,” assured Clint, groaning when Fury said 'ham and cheese' and both he and Phil broke into hysterical laughter that had Phil on the ground next to their boss. As long as there was no making out in the back of his car, he'd be good. His brain could not handle that. He didn't think either man was that far gone but he'd seen people do weird things when alcohol was involved. “Can you open the cell?”

 

“Sure,” assured McClain, unlocking the door quickly and shaking her head at them. “Alright soldiers, on your feet!” Both men immediately reacted to the drill-sergeant like tone, stumbling to their feet and swaying where they were standing. Which made Clint wonder how Phil had gotten onto the bars in the first place earlier. “Your buddy is here to bail you out and take you home.”

 

“Yes, ma'am,” replied both men. Clint was actually surprised at how engrained the military training was; he'd never imagined a tone of voice could get Phil or Fury to do anything automatically.

 

Nodding once, McClain stepped aside. “Now march!”

 

Watching Fury and Coulson lean on each other as they stumbled from the cell was probably the best thing Clint had seen that entire night. Their legs kept hitting and he thought Phil might actually strike his head on the cell bars as he and Fury tried to both exit at once. In the end, they turned sideways like some weird statue and shuffled out, still leaning on each other.

 

Clint just shook his head as they shuffled by and looked at McClain. “Thanks again.”  
  


“No problem,” assured McClain as she and Clint followed Phil and Fury out of the cell area. “It was good to have someone who wasn't you in here this time. Just keep them out of trouble; next time I will draw on their faces.”

 

Laughing at the image of Phil with a sharpy mustache and Fury with something insane drawn on his shaved head, Clint nodded his thanks again and ushered his bosses out to his car. Getting them inside was a little easier than he'd anticipated, though they fell against each other and started laughing as soon as they were inside. Clint just shook his head and shut the door before either one could decide they wanted to get out.

 

Climbing into the drivers seat, he contemplated where to take them. As obvious as SHIELD seemed for a location, Clint A) didn't really wanna support their drunk asses through the base, B) didn't think they'd want anyone from SHIELD seeing them like this, and C) was frankly a little worried. He didn't know how much they'd had or how often they got this smashed. The hangover the next day could be serious. Plus, the security just to access either man's apartment was probably horrendous and he'd probably trip something and end up vaporized.

 

Ditching the SHIELD idea completely, Clint started towards his own dumpy apartment with a shake of his head and just hoped that he wouldn't get yelled at tomorrow morning.

 

\----------------

 

Natasha easily cracked the lock on Clint's apartment, popping open the front door with barely a glance at what she was doing. It mystified her why Clint actually _bothered_ locking his front door when he knew she was coming by. She just picked the lock regardless. Besides, he owed her pancakes.

 

Stepping into the dark apartment, the first thing Natasha noticed was the black-out curtains currently pulled tightly shut across the set of windows which ran along the apartment's back wall. Curtains Clint only shut when he had a migraine or a hang-over. Alcohol would explain the 2 am call; when Clint was drunk, his sense of self preservation dropped even further below it's usual level of “Nearly Non-Existent” into “Yes, Please Shoot Me” territory. Still, he hadn't sounded drunk last night and his usual drunken idiocy had been absent. So if he wasn't hung over, than either he had a migraine (which wasn't getting him out of pancake duty) or someone else was in the apartment with a hang-over.

 

She got her answer less than thirty seconds later, when she scanned the living room and spotted the two lumps laying on top of each other on the floor. Two very familiar lumps. Well, this was unexpected.

 

Turning to the kitchen, where she could make out faint shuffling, Natasha took the four steps necessary to reach the other room and paused in the doorway. “Why are Coulson and Fury using your floor as a bed?”

 

“Because I couldn't fit them both on the couch and I wasn't giving up my bed for their drunken, sorry asses after they called me at 2 am,” replied Clint from where he stood with a bowl in hand. He was mixing something that looked suspiciously like cookie dough. “Besides, getting them up the stairs to my bedroom wasn't something I wanted to attempt. Plus, they kinda fell on the floor as soon as they were inside and just sorta rolled around laughing about 'ham and cheese sandwiches'. I figured they'd fall asleep eventually.”

 

Natasha shook her head, swiping the cup of coffee on the counter and ignoring Clint's glare. “I would have left them on the sidewalk.”

 

“Which is probably why Coulson didn't call you,” pointed out Clint, brandishing his dough-covered spoon in her direction. “Even drunk he knows you're cruel.”

 

“Speaking of cruel, where are my pancakes?” asked Natasha with a slight smirk, leaning on the counter. They both knew she wouldn't actually have abandoned Coulson or Fury if she'd gotten the call instead. She would have taken them back to SHIELD though. And called Hill. So the officers would have had an audience to their drunken stupidity.

 

“You're pancakes are coming up,” assured Clint, his hand hovering over the pan to check it's heat.

 

“Good,” muttered Natasha, shaking her head and glancing back towards the living room. “Why did they get smashed last night anyway?”

 

“Ranger birthday,” replied Clint with a shake of his head. “I think it's a tradition we somehow managed to miss. I seem to remember Coulson and Fury both being absent around this time every year.”  
  


“True,” murmured Natasha, shaking her head. “You'd better make a lot of pancakes. They're not gonna be happy when they wake up.”

 

“Nope,” agreed Clint, smirking. “Do you wanna wake them or should I?”

 

“They woke you last night,” pointed out Natasha with a smirk. “How were you going to do it?”

 

“Cold water,” replied Clint, grabbing a big pot. “I can do it from the balcony and avoid getting smashed into the ground. They took out thirteen bikers last night without sustaining a single scratch.”

 

“They are scary,” agreed Natasha as she set aside the coffee and pulled more cups from the cabinet. “Go get your revenge. I'll make the coffee.”

 

Grinning, Clint kissed Natasha's cheek and scurried from the room gleefully with his pot. The next few minutes were quiet before the sudden shouts of indignation and horror filled the apartment followed by shouts of “Barton!” that ended in pained moans. Natasha just picked her (Clint's) cup back up and kept sipping her (his) coffee.

**Author's Note:**

> If you didn't get the ham and cheese joke, cops are sometimes referred to as pigs and Phil's nickname is Cheese.


End file.
